


Find Me In The Darkness

by bulletandsophia



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Universe, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-12-02 23:45:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11520048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bulletandsophia/pseuds/bulletandsophia
Summary: This hope, this future. Sansa does not belong here.





	Find Me In The Darkness

**Author's Note:**

> My little Jonsa contribution before Season 7 officially begins!

The moon rises—and a thousand wishes plague her mind like the sparks that scatter in the wind from the wildlings' large bonfire outside. Sansa tries to swallow in their joy for dawn is about to come but she feels her chest tighten and her knees weaken for in truth, and despite the smile she carries as she passes by the men and women in the hall, she does not share it.

Winterfell swells with soldiers and common folks, all euphoric for victory is theirs. The darkened skies also house three large dragons roaming round and round the castle, occasionally screeching as if fully aware of the triumph they brought to the Seven Kingdoms and of the reverence and the songs Sansa is sure are already being written for them and their beautiful mother. Their savior. Their hero.

If she listens closely, perhaps, she might already even hear them all singing the songs down in the Great Hall.

She slipped past the prying eyes of court when the first of the drums beat and the strings plucked, signaling the start of the dance to the roar of drunken men. A thousand years ago, she might have blushed in anticipation of gallant lords all impatient to finally take her in their arms, then to drown in their sweet words and pleasantries, making her unmindful of the lateness of the night. But that image is not the image she wishes now, for all time. Only, she selfishly wishes for them to disappear for their joy is suddenly and instantly becoming her torment.

So, she sneaked out of the Great Hall like the shadow of winter herself; like the snows that melt and flow in the courtyard—puddles now truly, a nuisance in the oncoming promise of the greenest vegetation, of the softest of breeze and of the warm sunlight and dawn embodied underneath the pale skin, the pale hair, and the lilac eyes of the Dragon Queen; lilac eyes that simply just penetrate further and further, disposing her blue ones in the far, empty corner of her own keep, of her own home.

This hope, this future. Sansa does not belong here.

She pushes the door open to her chambers instead, surprised that he has made it there before her, resting in front of the hearth as if knowing no place else where he must rest. She closes her chamber door and leaned against it, smiling despite herself because even in this certain darkness, she has found a friend.

 _Ghost_.

The direwolf turns to look knowingly and as if reprimanding, as if asking what has taken her so long. She almost glides in the slight relief he brings and sits beside him, gently running a hand against his soft fur as he rests his head on her lap.

The chorus of the merriment below swirls with the remaining winds of winter and enters her room without warning. Sansa feels her chest heave again and she closes her eyes in desperation of unseeing, unhearing it all. But in any moment now, she knows, they will bellow their chosen union of the two Targaryen heroes that killed the undead, ready to proclaim them both as their new King and Queen, sealing this engagement in front of the Heart Tree and the sept in a fortnight, dissipating and taking away even the last remnants of her treasured memory of him, of when his lips touched hers before he bid farewell—stolen and hasty and desperate for life then was fragile and death can become either of them if he failed in the war.

_His lips will now also belong to another._

The pain is unfathomable and it trembles beneath her skin the same way the loud cheers finally shake the walls of the keep.

 _It is done._  

Ghost whines beside her as she buries her head in the crook of his neck, determined not to let her tears fall and yet not wanting to hear any of the roars only get louder and louder. The dragons also screech together as if the final verdict and affirmation for her warranted and deserved solitude.

Still, the rumble outside only continues to get brasher and the dragons up above finally screech in such pitch that Sansa feels the need to cover her ears. Ghost stands all alert as she finally gathers herself, now hearing the slightest change in the tunes of her surroundings; of cheers turning into shouts, of songs becoming curses, of the clanging of wine cups turning into swords being unsheathed. She scrambles to stand, she scrambles to see, she scrambles to make sense of it all.

Panicking, Sansa even thinks: _have the dead returned?_

But the door to her chambers slams open even before she can gauge the sudden shift in the air. Sansa turns only to find the source of her grief plainly and determinedly blocking her only means of escape.

Jon takes no moment of hesitation when he breathes heavily and his gaze falls on her, the intensity of which petrifies her deeply that it does not even allow her to take a step away nor ask what is happening in the keep.

“Tell me now if I am weak or foolish and see if I care.” he grumbles.

The dragons cry harder, angrier and the cussing and the cursing of men are far more blatant. Behind him, Stark soldiers run past the corridor: shields up, swords on hand, commanding whoever they see to guard the gates, to alert the archers, _to kill the beasts_.

Both terror and disbelief dawns on her for it could not be.

 _“What have you done?”_ is all Sansa could ask.

Jon takes a step closer, almost suffocating her with this new and unrestrained willpower that led him to her chambers. The fear crawls and envelopes her for she is sure now of what he has done at the feast—of the confession she knows that now launched this chaos, the confession she asked him not to make, the confession that mirrors the tomfoolery made by his own father for his own lady wolf so many years prior.

A Stark and a Targaryen once started a great war. Perhaps, that war has yet to see an end.

The moon glows brightly and only as if to reflect the gray of his eyes that do not stray from hers. Jon steps closer again and finally caresses her cheek. He speaks barely above a whisper but sure, as sure as the promise of dawn breaking apart in their hands and only for this certain darkness to hover the kingdom once again—a stark reminder no man or woman has ever had the courage to remember for how can one unlearn to feel the softness of skin on skin, of laughter that devours the soul, of caresses that cures deep aches, of promises sealed in between whispers, and kisses, and faraway dreams?

Jon grips her tighter as she takes her own determined breath. Terrified and yet alight with an ironic, selfish bliss for Sansa knows the path she’ll take even before he asks of it.

“I choose you.” he urges deeply, agonizingly. “And in my heart, I carry with me the smallest of hope that you will choose me too.”

Sansa closes the gap as her lips find his and she melds within him a piece, if not the entirety of her heart, that she only wishes makes all of their selfish abandon worth the thousands of swords meeting and greeting each other once again. Jon only holds her closer and they never part even if the pandemonium continues around them where the ground shakes, the sky lights again with fire, and the cries of dragons almost vibrate in her chest. She barely feels Ghost run across the room and outside, charging to whoever is trying to keep her and Jon apart.

They live together, now and forever, entangled in the weakness of their hearts, in the darkness of their fates. And in the middle of where they stand in her chambers, where his lips never leave hers, Sansa knows the once hope and promise of dawn now shall never come.

* * *

 


End file.
